


This fortress in our hearts

by sirona



Series: My Immortal [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bloodplay, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kidnapping, M/M, Mating, Mentions of Violence, Protective Phil, Vampire Phil, biting kink, competent Phil is a kink, consequences of mating, rescuing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:26:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint gets a little bit kidnapped. This is how he finds exactly what it means to be the mate of a vampire. And then there's cuddles and comforting of hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This fortress in our hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [17 pansies (17pansies)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/17pansies/gifts).



> For 17Pansies, who incepted me with this entire 'verse and this sequel in particular. Mostly, this is indulging our shared biting kink. Ahem.

[Stay calm,] a voice in Clint’s head says. Clint blinks.

[What. The. Fuck,] he thinks back, and then, as loudly as he can, [ _Phil??_ You utter asshole, you told me I was making all that shit up, I can’t _believe_ you, Jesus, you’re such a dick—are you rescuing me already or what?]

The spot on his neck that Clint has come to think of as Phil’s Epic Lovebite tingles and warms, tugging gently at his skin. 

[I’m on my way. Are you all right?]

Clint winces, because that last was a _very_ loud thought. 

[‘M fine,] he projects, trying really hard not to think of how he can barely feel his feet, how his head’s kind of dizzy, how the skin on his palms is covered in blisters from being pressed to a hot plate when he wouldn’t answer the questions of the goons that had grabbed him. They hadn’t been very polite, so Clint hadn’t seen why he should encourage them. 

He gets the feeling that his attempts to school his thoughts haven’t really gone to plan when he can practically _feel_ Phil’s fury at the back of his head, like nails being pushed slowly into his skull. The mark tugs at him again, and Clint concentrates on that instead, going deep inside his headspace, even though that’s something he usually avoids like the plague. A different thought occurs.

[Are you actually tracking me through your mark?]

[ _Your_ mark, Clint, pay attention.]

[Fine, _my_ mark that _you_ put on me. Our mark. Whatever. Are you?]

A slight pause, then: [Yes,] a hint of amusement tempering the vicious burn of anger that Clint can still feel. [I am.]

[You are un-fucking-believable,] Clint thinks weakly, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of relief. He’d known, of course he’d known that Phil would come for him, that his mate would move mountains and heaven and hell to get to him, get him back, but it was another thing entirely to have the physical proof of Phil’s intent, his devotion to the cause. Clint still has trouble comprehending just how much Phil apparently feels for him; he tries not to let the thought linger too long. Most days it’s enough to feel the warm hum at the side of his neck, the proof of how deeply he is wanted. (Some days, he can’t help but swagger around the SHIELD compound like the prize cock in the henhouse, knowing what he knows, the evidence of it keeping him toasty on the coldest of nights.)

[Clint,] Phil says urgently in his head, and Clint realizes he must have drifted for a moment. The pain really is quite extraordinary. 

[I can’t _believe_ you made me think I was some paranormal-romance-obsessed thirteen-year-old. You can totally track me through the bond! And, and I can hear your thoughts! When were you planning on telling me this?]

The pause is smaller this time, but Clint likes to think it feels slightly guilty. [Soon,] Phil says. [I wasn’t going to keep it from you, not when it can obviously be useful. Like now. Although I assure you, I would have preferred not to be having this conversation under these circumstances.]

He sounds fine; he sounds perfectly composed, like he’s driving his blatant midlife crisis of a car around the freeway, sunglasses on, top down, gathering admiring looks from everyone he passes. Clint might be completely taken in, if it weren’t for the tiniest waver in the mental voice. It catches at him, makes him wish he could see Phil, could let him see that he was okay.

[So what else aren’t you telling me?] Clint thinks, making it as light as he can. [Do I have borrowed healing powers? I wouldn’t mind some of those right about now.] 

He immediately wishes he hadn’t been so flippant when he feels the spike of panic through their connection. [I swear I’m fine,] he adds sheepishly. [All damage is superficial.]

[Sadly, no healing powers,] Phil answers. Good, he’s still talking. That’s…comforting. It’s also not answering Clint’s question, and he says so while he tries not to move too much on his bruised tailbone from how they’d thrown him in the cell, pushing him over so he’d land badly. Clint doesn’t even know who 'they' are, or what their agenda is. They wanted information on SHIELD, and he wasn’t giving it to them. He had too many people in there now that he wanted to—had to protect. [Your life expectancy might have significantly gone up, however.]

Clint barely hears him. His head is killing him, and he can’t shake the terrifying thought that he might be hallucinating all this. That Phil isn’t coming after all.

[Tell me something only you know,] he thinks weakly. He feels what must be Phil’s panic, thinks he hears him snap something to someone over at his end, but honestly, he’s drifting a little. He wishes Phil was here already. Wishes Phil could hold him. He misses the way Phil wraps himself around him, like there is nothing that can get to Clint when he’s in his arms. 

[Director Fury’s middle name is Ferdinand,] Phil says, and Clint snorts, because that is something only Phil could know. Clint has no way to verify if it’s true.

[That’s fucking awesome,] he thinks. It’s slurred, like even his brain is drunk. [I hope it’s true.]

He misses what Phil says next, but he manages to focus on the sound of his name, frantic in Phil’s mind.

[Clint. Clint. Baby, stay with me.]

Something tightens inside him, something so fiercely glad to have had this time with Phil, to have come to know him like this. To have earned Phil’s trust, his love. It’s by far the most worthy thing he has done with his life. 

“I’m here,” he whispers, no longer caring whether anyone hears him. 

He doesn’t know how long he drifts, how much time passes before sound starts floating through the fog of his consciousness. Slowly, he becomes aware of noise, lots of it, the kind of booming sound that comes with bullets and explosions being utilized liberally all over someone’s ass. He spends a while longer trying and failing to focus, clinging to the faint buzz under his skin on that particular spot on his neck until a sudden flood of light from the door makes him flinch and hide his face behind his ravaged hands. He hears a sharp intake of breath, but before he can squint through his fingers and try to locate its source, there are hands on him, a familiar, gut-meltingly comforting touch tracing his hairline, sending a shower of tingles through his (he’s pretty sure) cracked cheekbone. Clint keeps his eyes closed, breathes in the warm, woodsy scent mixed with smokiness that catches at the back of his throat and makes his breath hitch, and smiles at the sharp tang of gunshot residue lingering around his rescuer.

“Hi,” he whispers, hating the way his voice cracks on the tiny syllable. 

“Hi,” Phil replies. Clint must be hallucinating even worse, because he’s sure Phil’s voice is shaking just as much, and that can’t be right. Phil is always calm and collected in a crisis, deadly still until he explodes in violence. It’s his MO. 

“None of the rules apply when it comes to you,” Phil says. (It will take Clint an embarrassingly long time to work out that Phil was replying to his thoughts, not reprimanding Clint for being stupid.) His hands are gentle on Clint’s face, the back of his head, the rest of his body as Phil checks him for injuries. The side of Clint’s neck throbs happily from his proximity, and Clint just wants to curl into his arms and stay.

“No,” Phil says. He sounds regretful. “That can’t happen right now, I’m sorry.”

Clint tries to pout, then tries to stoically accept his lot. It takes an exhausting amount of energy to do either. The room rocks, and he figures Phil has picked him up and is carrying him outside cradled bridal-style in his arms, one of them clenched around his shoulders, the other hand curled under his thighs.

“Heh, I’m, like, your bride,” he slurs. Crap, apparently his grip on reality is becoming increasingly weak.

Phil does not reply, but he does quicken his stride. His breathing speeds up, whooshing in and out by Clint’s ear, and Clint catches the smell of fresh sweat where his face is buried in Phil’s neck. It’s unexpectedly reassuring. 

He tries not to gag at the stench of blood in the closed-off corridor. What guards he can see are all lying in pools of it, leaking out of their bullet-riddled bodies. Phil gives no indication that he has noticed them at all. Leashed fury still exudes from him in waves, and Clint has to wonder whether his eyes would glow red in the darkness if he could see them.

Then, the darkness closes in on him again, until he doesn’t wonder about anything at all.

\---

He comes to in SHIELD medical, to his disappointment very much alone. His head is pulsing so hard it makes him nauseous; he reaches one bandaged hand to massage it and freezes when his fingers skitter over another layer of thick wrapping. 

“Shit,” he mutters. This must have been closer than he’d thought.

He tries to sit up and immediately decides to not be such an idiot when the base of his spine screams at him to cease and desist. He can’t quite stifle his groan.

“Barton, will you bloody well stop moving,” a low voice grumbles from behind the privacy curtain, which twitches and is then yanked aside to reveal a short black woman in her mid-forties. (At least, Clint thinks it’s mid-forties. He has never been on drugs heavy enough to make asking seem like a good idea.)

“Hey, Doc Liz,” he mumbles. The vibrations make him wince. “What’s up with my mummy impression?”

Dr Liz frowns at him, then glares balefully at his hand until he stops patting at the bandages.

“You had sub-cranial bleeding. We had to relieve the pressure fast or your brain would have exploded out of your skull.”

Clint nods thoughtfully. That might explain why Phil had been so freaked out; he’d probably been able to smell the wrongness in his blood flow. Clint goes to anxiously twist his fingers, but is foiled by the fact that they are mostly tied together by the bandages. 

“These can come off in a bit,” Dr Liz supplies, watching him fidget. “We put some salve on them, it’ll take a while but they’ll heal just fine.”

Clint nods, relieved. He lets his head fall back onto the pillow and closes his eyes.

“Everyone else?” he asks, bracing himself for the answer. 

“Surprisingly, no one died, though I wouldn’t put money on that staying the case if Agent Coulson hadn’t found you so quickly,” Dr Liz says wryly. “Between them, your mates had a bunch of broken bones, four cracked ribs, three concussions, and one through-and-through. Guess whoever took you wanted to keep you lot alive for a while, but they weren’t too bothered what shape you’d be in in the meantime.”

Clint hums gratefully. They’d all made it, which he’s been through enough missions to realize is pretty much a success all round. Ten to one, Coulson had made sure the back-up collected what intel they could from the site so the whole thing wouldn't be a complete bust.

“Sleep some more,” Dr Liz says, shifting closer to his side. Clint starts drifting almost immediately. He loves drugs. Drugs are his friends. Phil's his friend, too, but he must be busy with post-op, and Clint isn’t sad he’s not here to watch him sleep. He isn’t. 

He tries and fails not to feel too despondent about that, right before the room goes dark and he gratefully subsides to the land of Nod.

\---

The next time he wakes up, it's to voices close by, a certain hum that he could never mistake.

"…Couldn't take him down," Natasha says. "I enjoyed teaching him otherwise."

"I'm sure you did," Phil says mildly. 

Something inside Clint warms with the subtle amusement in Phil's voice. He opens his eyes and lets his head tilt towards the sound, already smiling. He watches Phil and Nat bicker a little while longer, basking in a feeling of welbeing that leaves him breathless and wondering how he made it to this place from the kid who had angled to get into fights because it was contact, and any kind of touch would do. 

As if he'd heard him, and frankly Clint wouldn't put it past him, Phil turns to look at him, such helpless, knee-shaking relief in his eyes that Clint finds himself reaching for him with an arm that is stuck through with needles but no less desperate to touch. An instant later, he checks himself and starts to pull back – they haven't exactly been hiding, but they have been careful about who they let see the change in their relationship. Before he can get far, though, Phil steps closer, plucks his hand out of the air and folds it in his palm, tucked safely inside.

Flushing, Clint sneaks a look at Nat, who rolls her eyes and pointedly looks away so that Clint can pull Phil nearer, catch his tie with his other hand and reel him in to kiss him, press his lips to the already familiar softness of Phil's, something Clint has come to crave. He signs when Phil pulls back, lingering low over him to buss his temple, his forehead. Clint thinks he might have blushed bright red with pleasure and shyness both if his blood pressure hadn't still been somewhat low. 

"Hey," Phil says, like an utter sap. Clint can't bring himself to mind.

"Hi, baby," he murmurs, because he's never going to leave Phil going out on a limb on his own. To his shock, it's Phil who turns pink, dropping his eyes with a pleased little smile and squeezing Clint's hand. Clint's heart tries to pound out of his chest at this adorable display of partiality. He only needs to take one look at Phil now to know that there's no place he could have been taken where Phil wouldn't have come for him. This protective streak is kind of _really_ doing it for Clint. He totally doesn't mind being coddled if this is what he gets in return.

"How much longer am I stuck here?" he asks, looking around at Nat, who is gazing out of the window with her back to them. That would be more effective if Clint couldn't see her smile in the faint reflection of the glass.

"At least a few more days," she says, turning back towards them and raising a teasing eyebrow at how Clint most definitely does not let go of Phil's hand.

Clint wrinkles his nose and thinks about whining, but a sideways look at Phil's face drawn in a miserable, concerned frown, smile nowhere to be found, checks his impulse. 

"Hey," he says, tugging a little at Phil's fingers to get his attention. "I'm fine. You got me. And don't think I've forgotten about that talk we're going to have."

That seems to do the trick; it lifts the heaviness from Phil's features until he's just Coulson again, their long-suffering handler. 

"Never crossed my mind," Phil blatantly lies, but Clint's going to let him get away with that, he already knows. He's nice like that, and this isn't the place to explore the more...interesting aspects of their bond. 

"That was almost convincing," he says instead, smirking and enjoying the way Phil lets his guard down around his Strike Team Delta, more than at any other time. "Now. What are we going to do so I don't die of boredom? Nat, got a deck of cards?"

She magics one from the pocket of her leather jacket, like Clint knew she would. Thwarted from using their regular betting chips (supplies from whatever safehouse they'd had to hole up in), Clint ends up owing Nat three missions' worth of report writing, and Phil a day out clothes shopping (the second of which would be infinitely worse – but, well. Phil.) The afternoon passes quickly, far from quiet – SHIELD medical, like any other regular hospital unit, prefer Clint to stay put in his bed, but unlike every hospital Clint had stayed at so far, are prepared to let him have distractions – hence his team, and a steady trickle of visitors come to make sure he hasn't gotten himself blown up yet. Throughout the day, Phil never once leaves his side, even though Clint knows he must have a hell of a workload mounting up. 

[I love you,] he catches himself thinking every now and again, when Phil makes a face at losing to Nat, or lets loose his pleased little smirk when he's the one winning. [I love you, God, I'm so lucky for you.]

He doesn't think it's just his imagination when words whisper through the inside of his mind, insidious and so very welcome. 

[I love you, too.]

\---

Two weeks later, Clint is not feeling _nearly_ as charitable. 

"Goddamn it, Phil, if I can sit through a 'So your mate is a vampire' 101, I can damn well stand you to give me an orgasm. Okay? How am I supposed to internalise this without some incentive? It's not like I can just wrap my mind around the fact that you can track me through your mark, you can hear my thoughts, and oh, yeah, there's the part where I'm a little bit immortal now."

"I can't hear your thoughts all the time," grumbles Phil, a mulish set to his shoulders. Damn it, Clint has healed enough to take a piss and a shower on his own. This is so unfair.

"Can you hear them now?" he asks snappishly. He damn well hopes Phil gets a full blast of Clint's current crankiness. Two weeks of Phil spending every spare moment with him, and talking, and sitting quietly nearby as he does his reports while Clint reads or puts together jigsaw puzzles, and _touching_ Clint whenever he could get away with (which, as far as Clint was concerned, was _always_ ), and Clint is at the end of his tether.

Phil tries to play the 'pleasantly distracted' card, pulling up his bland agent face as he leans back on the headboard of the enormous bed in his loft apartment. Clint paces before the foot of it, eyes narrowed on Phil's terrible attempts at nonchalance and hands itching to give his half-hard cock some friction. He could drop his pants and jerk himself off in the bathroom, but he's been doing that for nearly a week now, and damn it, he wants his mate's touch on him. Truth be told, he misses it. There's only so long he can spend his sleeping hours being spooned by a very warm, very possessive body for, before he snaps.

He tries his plaintive face on Phil, letting his bottom lip pout just a bit. Phil swallows and licks his mouth, but makes no move to put aside the case file he'd been working on before Clint cornered him. Clint lets out an incoherent growl, fisting his hands at his side and digging his nails in his palms.

"Look, if you don't want to, or you've changed your mind about us, just tell me now, okay?" he grits out, stamping down the ache in his chest. Phil had said he wouldn't, but things happened. People changed. Maybe seeing how fragile, how helpless Clint could be was a turn-off for him.

Before he can twist himself into more knots, Phil sighs and drops the aforementioned file to the floor beside the bed. 

"Come here," he says, voice low and so, so comforting, that cadence Clint wants to wrap around himself and let the warmth of it sink into his bones. He goes, despite himself, gut still churning from everything Phil had said, everything he had come to realise about the bond between them, just how tightly interwoven the two of them had become. Phil catches his hand and tugs, until Clint has straddled his lap and sat on his thighs, cock pressed gently against the in-seam of Phil's pants. Phil's thumbs stroke the backs of Clint's hands, over the knuckles and to the side so that their fingers can lace together.

"You know better," Phil says quietly, faintly chiding. "I'll never change my mind about us. Not being with you would be like choosing not to breathe. But I don't want to hurt you again. I know, I know you're mostly recovered," he allows, when Clint opens his mouth to object. He smiles ruefully. "I just...couldn't forgive myself if my wanting you too much made you worse."

Clint whines out loud, shifting his hips so that his cock slides into the groove joining Phil's thigh and his groin. "But I'm so fucking horny," he complains. "Come on, Phil, just one orgasm. You don't even have to touch me, if you don't want to, I'll do all the work myself. Come on," he cajoles, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of Phil's jaw, breathing in his scent deeply and exhaling on a sigh. "God, you always smell so good. I could spend all night just like this, with my nose pressed to your neck. Right here," he says, kissing the spot under Phil's ear and flicking the skin with the tip of his tongue. Triumph floods him when Phil's breath hitches and his hands spasm in Clint's hold. He purrs with pleasure, kissing down Phil's neck and relishing the little twitches of Phil's body under his, the growls that slip out of Phil's mouth likely despite himself.

"You won't hurt me," he whispers, resting his chest on Phil's and letting Phil take his weight, a negligible effort for Phil's strength. "You could never hurt me, baby. I'm your mate, remember?"

Before he knows what he's doing, he opens his mouth and bites down on the side of Phil's neck, right where the mark pulses under his own skin. For a long second, time enough for Clint to wonder if he has broken some kind of unspoken rule, Phil freezes as still as carved marble.

And then Clint is flying, landing on his back on the bed with Phil looming above him, fangs extended and eyes gleaming and looking every inch the predator he is. Clint's wrists are pinned to the bed by Phil's hands tight as manacles on his skin; Phil's body presses tight on his, groin holding Clint's hips down – as if Clint would ever want to be anywhere but here, gazing up into Phil's eyes gone dark with lust. 

"Jesus," Clint breathes, mouth gaping open. His whole body feels like it's on fire; when Phil shifts, pure blinding pleasure goes right through him, and he realises that his cock has gone from 'interested' to 'rock-hard' so fast he feels dizzy with it. "I'll have to file that move away for future reference."

"Damn it, Clint," Phil says, enunciating carefully around his fangs that Clint cannot stop staring at. He wants to lick them; he wants them inside him as much as he needs Phil's cock to fill him up. 

"Oh, God, yes," he moans, trying to lift his hips and get himself some friction. Phil holds him down effortlessly, giving him no leeway, and shit, Clint never knew this about himself but apparently being pinned down? One _hell_ of a turn-on. 

'Please," he begs, all notions of embarrassment forgotten. "Please, Phil, oh, fuck me. Please. Or bite me, hell, at this point that'll do it, too."

Phil's eyes go wide, dropping to the side of Clint's neck where his skin feels like it's going to crack, pounding and hot and needy. Christ, the thought alone of Phil biting him there... His cock jerks under Phil, desperate and so ready to blow. 

"Yeah, come on. Bite me. Bite me, Phil, come on, I'm good, I've got all my blood back, and you don't need much right now anyway, so just bite me, suck my throat, if you won't fuck me, then give me this."

"Clint," Phil says helplessly, and Clint can actually feel him waver, doesn't need to read his mind to know that Phil wants this, needs this as much as him. 

He stretches upwards, chasing Phil's mouth; he lets out a thready moan when Phil leans in and kisses him deep and filthy, pushing his tongue between his lips. Clint sucks on it as much as he can, catches Phil's lower lip between his teeth and nips hard, sucking that too when Phil jerks.

And then he licks into Phil's mouth, tongues those incredibly distracting fangs, and moans as he presses his tongue a little too hard against one tip, slicing his skin open.

The taste of iron floods his senses and he keens, doesn't give Phil time to freeze up but deepens the kiss instead, painting the roof of Phil's mouth with his blood. He feels the answering jerk in Phil's groin as the taste hits him, too; Phil falls on top of him, flattens him to the bed as he does his best to eat out Clint's mouth. It feels so fucking good; every particle of Clint's body is up and slavering for more, in a state of near-painful arousal. Clint's fingers curl in towards where Phil still has his wrists pinned; he lifts up one of his legs, opens himself for Phil's body, nearly bites Phil's tongue as the friction abruptly increases. He still can't move his hips, can't rub himself shamelessly off on Phil like he wants to, but Phil is restless on top of him, too, small twitches and helpless shifting that is almost as good.

"Clint," Phil groans when he lets Clint up for air, just as black spots start to dance around the edges of Clint's vision. "You must stop."

"No way in hell," Clint pants, deliberately baring his neck to Phil's covetous eyes. "Bite me or don't, fuck me or don't, there is absolutely _no_ way I will ever stop angling for more of you. You oughta know that by now."

Phil sighs shakily, dropping his shoulders to lay his forehead in the hollow of Clint's throat, breath coming out in shallow pants. 

"I want you so much," he admits, sounding like it's torn out of him. "The taste of you, the smell of you, God, knowing I almost lost you. Clint, I can't lose you. I'm sorry. I can't let you go ever again."

Clint fights to swallow around the lump in his throat, heavy with emotion. "We've been over this before, baby. You don't have to let me go. I never want you to. Now, I don't know if you've noticed, but my dick's about to fall off from an epic case of blue balls. You think you can maybe do something about that?"

"Clint," Phil sighs, but it's warm and lush with affection, chiding and happy at the same time. Phil's hands let go of his wrists. Clint wants to protest, but then those hands sweep over all of him, chest and sides and hips, divesting him of his clothes as he goes. Soon, Clint is naked, desperately trying to tug off Phil's shirt so he can feel his skin on his body. Phil helps, which is mighty kind of him, ulterior motive or not. Clint runs his hands greedily over all that's uncovered, silky smooth under his hands. He clutches at Phil's broad shoulders and tugs him in, presses his mouth to the side of Phil's neck again. 

This time, there's no hesitation. A big, heavy palm curves around his cock, and Phil's lips are on Clint's neck, too, and then the scrape of teeth, and then Clint's eyes roll back into his head and he tries to buck into the touch as little by little, Phil's fangs slip inside. If thinking clearly, he'd have thought this would ache, an intrusion where none belongs. But it's Phil, and Phil can have access to every single part of Clint's body that he wants. Clint is his, gave himself over, could be held in no more careful hands than those currently claiming every inch of him. 

"Yeah," he pants, "please, oh, Phil, yeah." He bites at his lip when the pressure in his balls builds and builds, while Phil sucks at his neck in rhythm with the tight strokes of his fingers on the part of Clint that needs it the most. Clint thinks for a split second that he can't possibly take this much pleasure; that he will fly apart, lose himself, exist on this knife's edge forever, for as many years Phil has gifted him with. His nipples feel sore, and his ass feels empty, and his hands clench on the sheets, urging him on. Phil sucks again, harder than before, an edge of teeth slipped in for good measure, and Clint is done, so done, it's all over, he's screaming and coming over Phil's grip like his whole body is being turned inside out. 

He pants helplessly as Phil licks his neck closed, then looks thoughtfully down at his hand before licking that clean, too. He can only make small sounds in the back of his throat, limbs all askew and completely weightless, drifting in the happy place a great orgasm can dump you into. 

"Magic," he mutters, a very stupid smile on his face that he doesn't feel the inclination to do anything about. 

"Sap," Phil says, except when Clint looks around, he's nowhere to be seen. [Bathroom,] Phil supplies when Clint must send out a mental distress call. [Two minutes. Go to sleep, if you can.]

"Not without you," Clint murmurs, echoing it in his head. [Never without you, please.]

[I'm here,] Phil tells him, warm and heavy with love, with devotion Clint has no idea how he earned but likes too much to let Phil change his mind about. Moments later, he is, padding out of his bathroom in just a pair of lounging pants he must have slipped on in the intervening minutes, half-hard cock a tempting bulge beneath the fabric across his left thigh. Clint eyes that with disappointment.

[You didn't--] He can't finish the thought. It's too upsetting.

"I'm not the one who needed the release," Phil reminds him, but runs a hand through Clint's hair as he switches off the bedside lamp, sliding into bed with him and nudging Clint onto his side before tucking himself against his back. His cock lies between Clint's ass cheeks, not demanding but a gentle reminder that Clint wasn't enough, again--

"No," Phil says. His voice is flat and stern and commanding, and Clint shivers in his arms at the tone. "Never think that. I want you, I always want you, but right now I need to know that you're okay more. That you're going to sleep and rest, and when you wake up, maybe making love to you won't be something to drain you dry."

Ugh, Clint thinks. Vampires. Always have to have the last word. He curls his body forwards, around the arm at his waist. His hands play with the crinkly hairs on Phil's skin, stroking the soft fur of it. It tightens a little, bringing him in better contact with Phil's front. Phil's chest quakes behind him, smothering laughter. 

[Sleep,] Phil says in his head. He starts to hum something slow and melodic. Clint isn't sure if it's out loud, or in his own head and he's letting Clint hear it, but either way it makes his spine melt, his whole being relax. [Sleep, darling. Tomorrow, after you wake up and I give you what you want, there's something I want to ask you.]

"That's not helpful at all," Clint grumbles under his breath, trying to swallow down the spike of apprehension. He can practically feel Phil roll his eyes.

"I have to go on a trip, to Europe. Prague. I was wondering if you wanted to come with me."

Clint grins, hard and happy until his cheek pushes against the pillow. "You wanna take me on a honeymoon?" he crows, too warmed by the thought to care what he sounds like.

"Christ," Phil exhales behind him, but his hand pats over Clint's stomach where it rests. "It's something I do every couple of years, meet friends, maintain contacts. I thought you might like to accompany me this time. Everyone's going to know I've mated just from looking at me, and they'll be less rude and invasive with their questions if they can see you there, too. ...Maybe," he adds a moment later, significantly less certain than during the rest of his speech.

"So you're meeting other vampires?" The thought shouldn't be as exciting – or worrying.

"Yes. Friends, like I said. Contacts from Europe's underworld. Nothing too strenuous, and nothing dangerous. Unless something gets fucked up, but hopefully it shan't."

Clint thinks about this. Thinks about strolling down Charles Bridge with Phil's hand in his, about making Phil take him to the St Vitus Basilica and tell him all her secrets. About getting to curl up under crisp white sheets in Phil's arms, and listen to the bells on the towers count the passing time.

"I'd love to," he says, fingers lacing through Phil's on his stomach. 

Phil huffs a small exhale, pressing his lips to the back of Clint's neck. "I'd love it, too."

[Sap,] Clint thinks, smiling. 

[ _Sleep,_ or no fucking,] Phil tells him sternly.

Yeah, all right. Sleep. And then, Clint'll give Phil the ride of his life, and he won't take no for an answer.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there will be part three. Because Prague. And inception by fellow fangirls. Yeah./0\


End file.
